


Look Within Your Local Bog To Find A Friend And Boy

by ActualBlanketGremlin



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, But it isn't permanent, Does it count as character death if they don't stay dead?, Fairly graphic descriptions, Major character death in the first chapter, Now with a podfic, Paul Prenter Being an Asshole, Tags May Change, This is a weird one y'all, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22200502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualBlanketGremlin/pseuds/ActualBlanketGremlin
Summary: Ridge Farm has always had a reputation for bad luck and strange occurrences. Strange sounds have been heard coming from the bog just beyond the property for several thousand years--but why?
Comments: 20
Kudos: 43





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This would have been dedicated to BrooklynBugleBoy and their fic The Dark One for their influence on the tone of this story, but it looks like they deleted their account a few days ago, taking the stories with them. So instead, this is dedicated to lost stories. It just goes to show that you make a difference, no matter how small you may think your influence stretches. And, as a PSA, if you want to cut ties with a fandom for whatever reason, you can orphan your stories so someone else can take up the mantle!
> 
> Now that the wholesomeness is out of the way, onto the creep show! I saw one (1) low-res/low light picture of The Boys and my brain spat this out (god help us all). There's going to be more with the Bog Buddies in the future, in a slightly different AU to this one. I'm not even sorry. For now, enjoy!

They had been resting for a long time. Not much changed, but the three of them endured. That wasn’t strictly true, the World Above changed quicker than a hummingbird’s wings, but down in the sphagnum’s deep embrace, things were a bit more peaceful.

Brian had been there the longest, sacrificed for the good of the community in the face of a long winter. Their people needed to eat, and food was running out, so the Elders and the Druids had a long talk and selected one of their own to petition the gods. Brian went willingly; it was an honor to be Chosen. He was laid into the bog just on the outskirts of town with his crwth, to try his hand at charming the gods with his sweet playing.

Roger’s arrival had been a surprise. Brian hadn’t realized he was still sentient and aware of his surroundings until the blond had come crashing down, full of questions. Roger, as it turned out, had been a local servant to the Roman invaders until he had gotten too mouthy and had fought back instead of taking his punishment in silence. They stabbed him and dumped his body in the bog to be forgotten, lost to the sands of time. Brian had learned patience during his rest, staring sightlessly up at the sky he could no longer see, but it was a relief to have someone else to talk to after so long.

So much had changed since Brian had last seen the World Above, and Roger was more than willing to fill him in. The woods had filled in, grown from the scrawny copse of trees to a mighty forest over the millennium that had passed; so it came to pass that Brian and Roger found they could rise up out of the waters and talk in the open air once more. Brian realized he could bring his crwth up with them and harness the energy from the land around them to play his beloved instrument again, and he taught Roger the old songs so they could play together. Local legends sprang up about the otherworldly music coming from the trees, and locals stayed away, lest they be charmed away from their homes by the faeries.

They passed many a year that way, sleeping in the warm embrace of the waters of their bog and returning to the surface on summer nights to play their music and look at the stars above. The two became as close as brothers and were content to continue, just like that, until the end of time itself.

Many years passed in much the same way, and then two became three. John had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, really. He had heard the Night Music and, being a newcomer to town, he hadn’t known to stay away from the bog. He hadn’t known where the edge of the sucking waters had been in the dark either, and the Will-O-The-Wisps hadn’t helped, leading him further in and away from help. Nobody heard his cries for help when he drowned, except for two men who were already dead.

Brian and Roger helped John adjust and grow accustomed to life—or death—in the bog. It wasn’t all bad, even though acids from the sphagnum moss tanned their skins a deep brown. They’d be young forever, preserved perfectly from the day they crossed into their lives After. They wouldn’t have to worry about food or drink—though they could still partake if the occasion arose. Besides that, none of them had been weighed down with heavy stones or forced into place with withys, so they had more freedom than most. They could probably even go into town, if they really set their minds to it.

One look from John set them straight about that, they couldn’t just go waltzing into town. Neither Brian nor Roger had gone particularly gently and their time in the bog’s waters, while comfortable, hadn’t been kind on their features. Still, with John’s help, they venture out of the woods for the first time in centuries—always at night, always very carefully, and always when they’d be sure they wouldn’t be seen.


	2. The Singer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which three become four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! There's some pretty gnarly descriptions of The Boys in the last paragraph before the dialogue section, so if you're squeamish, you might want to skip that bit.  
> Now that's taken care of, thanks to everyone for leaving Kudos and commenting! It's really great to get feedback from y'all :)

Freddie had been a singer with a local band, touring and belting out his songs on the weekends, before going back to his job working at the airport during the week. He was very good, while his band was mediocre; nobody was surprised when he was scouted by a record company for a solo career. Freddie was given a manager and set up with a band and set loose with the instruction to create an album they could sell.

Paul was a very good manager, he saw to Freddie’s every need in the studio, and the two soon became fast friends. Freddie had certain self-sabotaging tendencies, which Paul kept in check, until he didn’t. Freddie had gone to a mostly abandoned farm in the countryside to record the album, with Paul and a few session musicians who didn’t have anything better to do for a few months. The musicians stayed in the nearby town, leaving Freddie alone with Paul most of the time. Further alone in their peaceful solitude, Paul showed his true colors.

* * *

Freddie wasn’t sure what had happened. It had been a bad week anyway, the session musicians were always late, but point-blank refused to live at the farm, citing ghosts in the woods behind the barn. Paul was staying with him, they had the whole farmhouse to themselves, but for some reason, he wouldn’t leave Freddie alone. It seemed like wherever Freddie was doing, whatever he was doing, Paul was there. He had taken to songwriting in the bath just to get some time alone.

Paul had said he had been a fan of Freddie’s when he was on the pub circuit and seemed to want to be very close friends, but Freddie had tried to make it clear that he wasn’t interested in that sort of a relationship. Paul just wouldn’t let up, though. They had gotten into another fight over his magnum opus that Paul seemed not to realize the genius of, stormed out, and suddenly everything had gone dark. He had fallen forward onto his knees, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting in some soggy wetland with three figures standing over him.

One of them had long hair that hung in defiant ringlets, despite the fact it was absolutely caked in peat. He had a deep gash in his throat and wore a noose like a necklace, and neither of the other two seemed to act like anything was wrong. When Freddie’s head stopped spinning, the reason for that became clear. The other two were absolutely filthy, as well as being absolutely dead. One had an obvious stab wound in his chest, not quite hidden by an open shirt. It didn’t bleed, likely a very old wound that had been preserved somehow without healing. The other seemed blessedly normal in comparison, although the sunken, oddly tight skin and horribly out-of-date clothes marked him as one who had also passed on. Freddie wouldn’t be caught dead in a sweater vest, vintage or not.

“Am I dead?” Freddie asked, looking up at them in fear. The one with the noose took a step forward and smiled.

“Yes.” He said simply, holding his hand out. “I’m Brian, and those are John and Roger. What’s your name?”

“Freddie.” Freddie replied, taking Brian’s hand and standing up. He was still a little unsteady on his feet. “What happened? How did I get here?”

“We were hoping you’d be able to tell us.” The one called John said, water spilling out of his mouth when he spoke. “None of us were awake when it happened, but we could feel your presence in the bog. It looks like you got smashed over the head, if that helps.”

“I think I was murdered.”


	3. Into Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which new friends look for information, and context (and coffee) is key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple notes this time, Capel is the town closest to Ridge Farm Studios, if I've looked at the map correctly. There's a brief description of Freddie's murder in the last full paragraph, but it isn't worse than anything else that's come before. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's given Kudos and commented! It really makes my day when you do :)

Brian, John, and Roger were quite nice, if a little unsettling. Freddie kept forgetting they were dead, and then the moonlight would hit Roger’s stab wound, or Brian would fiddle with the fraying end of his noose, or John would add his opinion to the conversation and water would pour out and Freddie would remember.

As it turned out, Roger had also been murdered (albeit nearly two thousand years previously), and nobody had come looking for his body. It wasn’t that he regretted being in the bog, he valued the relationship with Brian that he had gained, but a little effort from his family to discover what had happened to his body would have been a nice touch.

Freddie told them all about his life as a budding rock legend, Brian played his crwth a while, and they discussed what was to be done. John, Roger, and Brian had been sleeping when Freddie was laid to rest and Freddie couldn’t remember who had killed him or the events leading up to his death (“It’s all a bit of a blur, darling”), so that was the first order of business. The four of them waited for darkness to fall and they ventured out of the bog to explore the World of the Living.

* * *

Jim was tired. This was nothing new, it came with the job of Night Clerk at the local police station, but the village of Capel was rather small and very quiet, so nothing usually happened on his shift. The most interesting thing to happen was the conversion of the old farm down the road into a music recording studio. There had been some solo artist in, though he had been reported missing by his manager. The young man hadn’t come into town, but the band who were staying at the Crown and Arms said he was nice enough. Apparently, he had been a bit temperamental and ambitious--as most artists were--but he had always apologized if he stepped out of line. Some of the more local musicians shook their heads at the foolishness of turning the abandoned farm into a musician’s retreat to begin with, but the developers were from out of town and didn’t pay attention to superstitious nonsense.

Jim wasn’t sure what he believed, he had never had cause to linger at the farm and he lived on the other side of town, so he had never heard the supposed Night Music coming from the bog just beyond the property. He was usually too tired to care during his shift (shouldn’t he be used to late nights after all this time? His body didn’t think so), and he was generally sleeping or spending time with his wife during the day. When four young men wandered into the station at three in the morning looking like they had fallen into the stream nearby, he assumed they were other session musicians he hadn’t met yet. What else could they be? Young people these days wore all sorts of clothes, especially artists. It was probably deliberate, designed to get a rise out of the more subdued rural folk; best not to react at all.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked, looking them over sleepily. Long hair all around, strange clothes, damp, and in need of a wash—they were definitely musicians. The one in the most normal clothes—though that was relative, none of them were wearing what Jim would consider normal clothing—stepped forward, apparently the ringleader of their little group.

“We were wondering if we could look at some of your files. We’re—uh—doing some research into local history for a—uh—a project. Could we possibly see if anybody’s gone missing?”

“Working on a song, are you? The records room is down that hallway. First door on the left, don’t forget to wear gloves when you’re going through the dockets. And stay out of any files marked in red, those are still under investigation.” Jim said, stifling a yawn and looking down at his watch. The other musicians had been respectful in town, he didn’t feel like he needed to babysit the quartet. Now seemed like as good a time as any for his coffee break.

* * *

“That was easier than I thought it would be.” Brian muttered, slipping on a set of rubber gloves from the box on the table.

“We should be quick; we don’t want to get caught looking through things we shouldn’t be.” Freddie said, already grabbing a file with his name on it off the shelf. It wasn’t very thick, the locals knew about as much about him as the session musicians had, and more information was still making its way to the countryside from London. The local police had interviewed his manager Paul, who had been the last person to see Freddie alive.

The four of them crowded around the file as John read aloud, holding it safely at arm’s length.

_“Yes, I suppose I would have been the last person to see him, if none of the musicians have. We had a bit of an argument about one of his songs and he stormed out. I tried to stop him, but you know how temperamental those artists can be. By the time I got outside, he was gone. That was about two days ago, I thought he had just gone off to sulk somewhere and he’d turn up again when he got hungry. Then I figured he had gone to the pub—but if he hasn’t been into town, I don’t know where he went.”_

Something very strange was happening to Freddie. As John began to read, he had the same curious expression as the Brian and Roger, but as he kept going, Freddie sat down heavily on the desk chair, his head in his hands, as memories flooded back into him.

Freddie remembered. Paul had tried to kiss him that morning, said he was obviously gagging for it with how he strutted around stage. He had rejected Paul’s advances that night as well, locking his door overnight—just in case. Freddie remembered their fight after the next session, after the band had left. There were only vocals left to do. He remembered the overdubs, the tape was going to give out—it could withstand a few more, surely; he had turned to leave, and someone—Paul—had grabbed a session player’s guitar and clubbed him over the head with it until his vision faded into black.

“I know what we have to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jim! Someone give him a vacation and a raise, in that order.


	4. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter! This is a bit of a milestone for myself as well, since this marks the first fic that I've started and then also finished. Yaaaaay! I do have more planned for the concept of Queen + bog bodies, so hopefully I'll be able to get those up soon. I have (at least) a oneshot and possibly a longer fic planned.  
> Thanks to everyone who's left Kudos and comments, it honestly makes my day when you do. :)

Ridge Farm was peaceful at night. The sounds of the frogs and crickets chirping were a nice change from the heavy traffic of London, which was why Paul had stuck around. He disliked city life, but that was where the people were, so he put up with it. Tonight was different, though. Tonight, the frogs were quiet and the crickets were still. The night was silent, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

Not far off, four dead men rose from the still waters of the bog and made their way to the farm. They moved slowly, with purpose. After all, it wasn’t as if they had to hurry. Freddie had been scheduled to stay at the farm for another month. They were inevitable.

The lack of animal chatter had Paul on edge. This wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be normal; the animals had been noticeable the first few weeks of their stay.

It wasn’t completely quiet now, Paul thought he heard faint piano playing—but that couldn’t be. The farm’s resident pianist should have been at the bottom of the bog by now, and yet, there it was. The piano wasn’t alone, either, there was a guitar playing along to some long-lost rhythm.

A voice floated over the hot summer air and Paul was up like a shot. There was no mistaking Freddie Mercury’s voice, even from beyond the grave.

Was this some sort of prank? A joke the session musicians were playing on him? That seemed unlikely, but it couldn’t actually be Freddie. Freddie was dead.

Wasn’t he?

* * *

 _“_ _My girl, my girl, where will you go_ _? I'm going where the cold wind blows. In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don't ever shine, I would shiver the whole night through.”_

It wasn’t the best song Freddie knew, but it had the right tone of inevitable dread that he knew would get under Paul’s skin. Roger and John stood by the doors, ready to jump him when he came in.

_“My girl, my girl, don't you lie to me! Tell me where did you sleep last night? In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don't ever shine, I would shiver the whole night through.”_

Paul followed the eerie music to the barn-turned-studio, not sure of what he would find. The lights were on, casting shadows onto the grass outside. He couldn’t see movement, maybe it was a prank after all. One of the techs could have snuck back and rigged up the tapes to turn on at a particular time. And play a song Freddie hadn’t recorded. Yeah, right. What was going on?

_“My husband, was a hard-working man, killed a mile and a half from here. His head was found in a driving wheel and his body hasn't ever been found.”_

Paul opened the barn doors and came face-to-face with Freddie, sitting on the drum riser. Behind him stood a man in once-white robes with twin grim smiles on his face and in his neck. Two sets of leathery hands grabbed him by the arms to hold him still as Freddie came closer.

“Hello, Paul.”

He screamed.

* * *

When the session musicians came bright and early on Monday morning to touch base with Paul, they found his mangled body on the floor of the studio. All the lights were on and the doors were open, though none of the equipment had been touched. The same couldn’t be said about the erstwhile manager, however.

He had been dead for a while, that was certain. The pool of blood around his body had congealed, leaving a sticky mess for some poor sap to clean later. He was face down, like he had fallen and tried to crawl away before collapsing for good. There were bare footprints in the blood, tracking it from the instruments to the door and back and all around the body.

The most curious part of the case, as the police would later say, was the fact that the footprints were humanoid—not animal in origin. The body had massive chunks taken out of his forearms— _which would fall under the category of defensive wounds_ —his torso and abdomen— _also probably related, given that he lost the fight_ —and curiously, his lips had been bitten off entirely.

They never found the singer’s body, but locals say that on warm, moonless nights, a new musician has been added to the Night Music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song Freddie sings, a delightfully creepy murder ballad called In The Pines. Have fun! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2MkfTYPmLlA


	5. Podfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeey guess who's back with a bonus!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me. I'm back. Had the morning off, so I recorded this as a podfic! It's linked to my SoundCloud, but let me know if the link is ever broken (I haven't done this before) or if I should upload it somewhere else. Enjoy!

[SoundCloud Playlist HERE](https://soundcloud.com/lilly-s-480989104/sets/look-within-your-local-bog-to-discover-a-friend-and-boy)


End file.
